The Only Explanation
by HardlyFatal
Summary: BtVS-LotR xover. For reasonable elves, there can be only one explanation when the impossible happens. COMPLETE
1. Part 1 of 2

Author's Note: This my offering for the TTH fic-a-thon, as requested by the wonderful Clannadlvr.

Ever hear the expression, "that person will never die: Heaven won't have him, and Hell is afraid he'll take over"? And did you ever wonder what happened after Cordelia croaked on AtS in season 5?

I make a number of references to pre-LotR people and events. Notes on them at the end. Extra points for whomever knows who Huan is without peeking.

**Author's Request**  
  
_Genre_: Harry Potter or Highlander or Lord of the Rings, or Smallville  
_Max Rating_: NC-17  
_Characters_: Methos/Willow or Snape/Willow or Cordelia/Haldir or Lex/Cordelia  
_Type_: romance/supernatural  
_Want To See_: There's gotta be an angst angle, a darkness in at least one of the main characters of the pairing. Character death is cool too. yeah, yeah, I'm an angst fan.  
_Not Want To See_: No pregnancy stories.

I loathe Willow, and have no idea who Lex is, but adore Haldir. There was but one choice…

The Only Explanation, part 1 of 2 

By CinnamonGrrl

_There could be only a single explanation for this,_ Haldir mused, and congratulated himself on his logical personality, for his natural inclination to consider and discard the unlikeliest of possibilities until only the probable remained.

Fact the first: he had been gravely, fatally injured during a battle at the fortress of Helms Deep. Sorrow streaked through him at the knowledge that his archers were now leaderless without him, and hoped they would follow the direction of Aragorn, though he was not their lord. Failing that, Legolas could be pressed into captainship of the Lórien elves, he was sure.

Haldir had been relatively sure he'd died; his breath had faltered and his blood had slowed. His soul had wrenched itself free of its earthly moorings; he'd felt himself shedding his body like an old, damaged set of clothing, and striven Westward, toward the warm silver-gilt glimmer that beckoned to him. And then all had faded.

Fact the second: he had returned to awareness in a quiet room shrouded with pale silk that fluttered, though there was no breeze he was able to discern. Haldir had thought, at first, that this place was Mandos. How odd to feel himself in a body again, and thought it might be his own; he had looked down and thought he recognized the long, pale limbs that stretched before him.

It was, however, disconcerting to realize that he was nude. And, consequently, chilly. Sitting up on the long, soft bench, he combed fingers that trembled (though only a little) through long, familiar hair.

Fact the third: a Mannish female stood beside where he currently reclined. She was dressed like no woman he had ever seen, in snug trousers and a midriff-bearing tunic made of some whispery material. He could see quite clearly through it to another, skimpier garment underneath. She wore cosmetics, and her hair was bobbed short, its ends brushing her flawless cheekbones in a soft caress. She carried some flat boardlike object in the crook of one arm whilst the other impatiently tapped a writing implement of some sort on the end of the board-thing. The tapping was accompanied by the motion of her smartly-shod foot on the marble floor.

He had been fully prepared to accept the first two facts, but this last was beyond the pale. It was simply not possible for this outlandish creature to exist within the Halls of the Dead, and his acclaimed logic asserted itself, declaring that there was but one explanation.

It must be that he had not actually died but was still in Arda, still at Helms Deep, hallucinating or quite possibly in a coma.

Haldir lay back on the bench as his world righted itself and made sense once more, and closed his eyes with a smile. Aragorn was reputed to be a fine healer; he had no doubt the Man would fix him in good time. Sadly, his satisfaction was not to last.

"Well?" the woman prompted, annoyance clear in her less-than-dulcet tone. "I know it sucks to be dead, been there myself, but I don't have all Age. Snap out of it and tell me your name."

Haldir frowned and turned his head to the side. "I am not dead. Go away, irritating human."

She rolled her dark eyes. "Great, another bigot," she muttered. "Even at my worst, I was an equal opportunity snob, judging a person not by the colour of their skin but the quality of their wardrobe." She stared down at him beadily. "And it rarely steered me wrong; Xander was a fashion disaster, and look how well that ended. Not."

Haldir squinted at her, momentarily impressed with the quality and strength of this particular hallucination. She was annoying in the extreme, but he had to give himself full marks for originality; he doubted either of his brothers would be able to conceive of a being so utterly bizarre to occupy his feverish dreams.

Aragorn really should be by with those athelas of his, any moment now. Haldir was sure of it.

"You get one last chance to tell me your name and shuffle off to your reward, Elfums, before I knock your pasty ass off that bench. I'm really not having a good day, and you're getting on my last unshredded nerve."

_Elfums?_ Hallucination or not, this slight could not go unaddressed. _Nor,_ he thought fiercely, _could the other insult_. "Most certainly is not pasty," he muttered under his breath as he sat up once more, swinging his legs down before pushing himself to his feet.

Another roll of her expressive eyes. "Yeah, you're the only Elf here with a full-body tan. Name!" she barked, and he flinched back at the force of it.

"Haldir o Lórien," he replied with dignity, deciding to humour her, even if she were just a figment of what appeared to be a truly abnormally active imagination.

His acquiesence spurred an abrupt change of mood. "Hi, Haldir, I'm Cordelia." She beamed a smile at him that momentarily took his breath away with its sheer force. She didn't seem to note his reaction, however, because she was flipping through the pages affixed to the board on her arm, perfectly manicured fingertip trailing down as she searched for something, repeating his name under her breath.

"Got one Haldir here, but he died in the First Age. And was a Man." Her smooth brow creased in perplexment. "And this is the updated list, just printed the spreadsheet out this morning..." Her shoulders slumped. "It can only mean one thing."

Spinning on her tall, needlelike heel, she strode from the chamber, motioning for Haldir to follow. Indignant, he considered ignoring her command but his curiosity got the better of him, and he broke into a light jog to catch up to her in the corridor.

"And what one thing is what?"

She glanced sideways at him, seeming surprised he'd actually listened to her. "That a mistake was made. That you shouldn't have died today." She heaved a sigh. "I hate when this happens. The paperwork alone..." Her voice trailed away, and she shook her glossy head. "I have only myself to blame. I was the one who came up with it... ugh, bureaucracy. Looks like another reorganization is in order."

The idea seemed to cheer her immensely, for she flashed him a devastating smile as they turned a corner and entered a massive hall. Cordelia gestured to the room at large; everywhere were tables with chairs ranged round them, and long, comfortable-looking chaises. The walls were lined with bookcases, and the far wall was a series of etched-glass doors that seemed to open to some sort of garden.

And there were people everywhere; Elves, yes, but Men and Hobbits and Dwarves and Orcs and Goblins... and they were all interacting as if it were nothing at all. As if it were perfectly normal for Dwarves and Elves to chat, for Men and Orcs to laugh together at some joke, for Hobbits and Goblins to play a rousing game of chess together...

Wide-eyed, Haldir turned to Cordelia, feeling so incredulous he thought his brain might break from the sheer force of it.

"No one's evil or good here," she said softly. "Everyone just _is_. You get past petty racial issues when you're dead, you know."

He looked down the considerable length of his nose at her; even in those ridiculous shoes, she barely reached his shoulder. "I am _not_ dead," he informed her, infusing the words with as much haughtiness as he was able. Which was _a lot_.

"Suit yourself," she replied with a shrug, supremely unconcerned. "Anyway, welcome to the Halls of Cordelia."

He blinked. "_Not_ Mandos?"

Her brilliant smile immediately fell away. "Well, officially, yes. Even though the lazy bastard's been retired since Nargothrond. Even though _I_ have been doing all the work around here for six _thousand_ years without a single vacation," she continued, her voice raised to echo off the stone walls as she tilted her head back, addressing the ceiling.

The occupants of the huge room stopped, saw whom it was causing the ruckus, and returned to their previous actions.

"The Valar are big on that emeritus crap," she confided in Haldir. "I fixed _everything_ when I got here. You would cry to see the state of Nàmo's 'filing'—" here, she made air-quotes with her fingers—" because God knows, I nearly did. And apart from double-knit polyester, not a lot makes me cry, believe me."

She peered at him as if expecting him to dispute her declaration. When he simply stood, staring at her, acutely aware of how _cool_ was the air in the hall, since he was yet unclothed, her shoulders loosened a little and she nodded.

"This place runs by will. If you want to wear clothes, just will some clothes on yourself. If you're hungry, you can either will food directly into your stomach, or will some onto a table in front of you. When you get tired, just leave the hall and the first door you find will be your room, you can sleep there. I'm going to go look into what happened with you."

"Nothing has happened to me but an injury," he stated, still confident in his ability to discern reality. This was all far, far too bizarre to be truth.

Cordelia rolled her eyes. "Whatever blows your skirt up," she told him. "I'll find you when I know something." She began to walk away, and Haldir found his gaze fixed on her. Those snug trousers of hers left little to the imagination, and he openly admired the lean length of her legs, the slim straight line of her spine, the way her short hair swung with her gait.

A strange feeling gripped Haldir then, a worrying curiosity. He shivered, then recalled his nudity and tested her words: he willed himself into a set of long, warm robes and soft shoes, but still the shivers did not abate. What if he was wrong, unlikely as it seemed, about this hallucination?

"Wait," he called after her. She paused, but didn't turn around. "What if I _am_ dead, but not meant to be?" He hated the soft tremble of his voice. "Can I return?" If this death of his was not fated for much farther in the future, he would dearly love to see his brothers again. And what would the Lady and Lord do without his counsel and protection? "I must return."

Cordelia did turn then, her warm-brandy eyes sympathetic as she approached once more. She even went so far as to lightly touch his arm. "No," she said, her tone gentle to soften the starkness of the answer. "Once you're here, you're here. You can be reborn, but that takes a while. The most I can do is figure out why it happened, and try not to let it happen again." Her lips tilted in a sad smile. "Not much comfort, I know, but I didn't make these rules." She squared her shoulders and smirked. "I just try to twist them to suit my needs."

She glanced at something strapped round her wrist. "And right now, my needs are to get my toned and attractive ass to the main office for my 10.30 with Manwë; he's a total bitch when I'm late. Ta."

She left him there, staring wonderingly after her, his head a total muddle. She was on first-name-basis with Manwë, feeling comfortable enough with her relationship with the god to say outrageous things about him. She was brusque, confusing, rude, and utterly baffling... but then she was compassionate and actually kind.

It befuddled him, refusing to be classified into the logical paths and alleys in his mind. Most disconcerting. Feeling quite unsettled he drew the long comforting sweep of fabric closer to him before wandering off into the chattering masses of people.

Haldir still was convinced this was a hallucination—it was the _only_ explanation he was prepared to accept—but he might as well enjoy himself while it lasted... choking back his rather strong reservations, he nodded hesitantly to an Uruk-hai's invitation of a game of cards and sat at one of the tables, hoping Aragorn would hurry up with the thrice-damned athelas.

The passage of time, while noticeable, was yet difficult to gauge. There was no night or day in the Halls of Cordelia, or Mandos (whichever name you were inclined to employ), nor was there sun or moon. There was no such thing as a set time to wake or sleep; one simply woke when one was no longer tired, and slept when one was fatigued. It was similar for meals, with everyone simply willing food into existence when the desire struck. There was no actual need for food, but most ate out of habit and for pleasure.

Haldir, against all realm of possibility, forged a tentative friendship with the card-playing Uruk and soon fell in with Drashtor's group of friends, which included many of the races of Middle-Earth, and began to pattern his existence after theirs. He retired when they did, woke to find them awaiting him in the hall, shared meals with them, and explored whatever areas were open to him.

What he had thought was a garden was nothing of the sort. It was a courtyard, yes, filled with exquisite statuary and beautifully-tended vegetation, but above was not sky, but a swirling miasma of clouds in every shade of grey known to Elf. It was puzzling, for Haldir had believed plants required sunlight for life, but as Drashtor explained, will was life here: one had only to desire a plant to thrive, and throve it did.

Thus Haldir created a rosebush of his own, and tended it carefully by directing its growth with his will. The petals were palest yellow, tipped with coral-pink at the edges, and its stems were long and sturdy.

"But why did you not will it to be thornless?" inquired Drashtor after receiving a significant puncture from one of those thorns.

Haldir frowned and healed his new friend's wound with a thought, watching as the skin closed as if it had never been sundered, and the blood simply vanished. "Part of a rose's beauty is its danger," he said at last. "The risk you must chance in order to experience it... something comfortably gained has little attraction."

"Foolish Elf," grumbled Nud, their party's resident Dwarf. "It makes no sense to prefer what comes hard, instead of what comes easily. No sense at all."

"Is the Elf a fool, or sage beyond our comprehension?" asked Dondo, the lone Hobbit of their group, of the Man who sat nearby. "What say you, Boromir?"

Boromir sobered, stroking his chin as if lost in deep thought. "Though most of my experience with the Edhel has been with but a single Elf, and he of Mirkwood so I am not sure if his behaviour is typical... it seems to me that, sage or not, Haldir's reasoning is compatible with something my friend might believe." He grinned, then. "They are all like this, I think, the Edhel," he told them. "I met many in Rivendell, and always were they speaking of bittersweet this, and hard-won that... yes, this perverse preference for desiring what is nearly out-of-reach is perfectly typical."

"Typical… but is foolish or not?" Dondo pressed.

"That is not for me to say," Boromir replied gravely.

"We have a diplomat in our midst," Haldir commented, his tone arid.

"But of course!" exclaimed Boromir, standing and clapping the Elf on the shoulder. "The Steward of Gondor cannot afford to take sides when mediating between subjects."

"We are not your subjects, human," Nud grumbled, his fingers moving on his belt as if searching of their own volition for the axe that should have been tucked there.

Boromir smiled serenely. "Be that as it may," was his only reply.

A Goblin ambled up to them, then. "Where's Théodred?" he asked. "He promised me a rematch at chess."

"He was Released," Dondo replied, looking sad. Théodred had been one of their number until a short while ago, when his stay in Mandos was deemed sufficient. The length of time differed for each mortal being; Drashtor was the most recent of the mortals in their group, only arriving a little prior to Haldir, having died at the hands of Éomer's eored not long before Helms Deep's battle. In comparison, Nud had been there for a very long time, since the Battle of Five Armies eighty years ealier, after a set of his kinsman had set off with a Hobbit to conquer a dragon for its treasure... When a mortal was ready to depart Mandos, he was Released. No one knew his destination, but all were assured that it was a gift, not a curse.

Thus Théodred had been Released. Cordelia had come for him, and they had said farewell. Then she had begun to glow, and with a single pulse of white light, Théodred was gone.

"I miss him," Drashtor said.

"I do not," Nud countered firmly. "Now with him gone, the rest of us have some chance with the ladies!"

The others gazed at him with tolerant amusement. They had had quite the competition for winning feminine hearts, Nud and Théodred, and the Man had been far ahead of the Dwarf when his Release had come. Now, with no rival for his pursuit of the various lovelies that called Mandos (or Cordelia) their home, Nud had been on a positive tear through the female populace.

Haldir exchanged a look with the rest; none had quite so great an interest in women as their friend. Boromir had ever been more concerned with the progress of his country than of his social life, Dondo was saving himself for marriage, and Drashtor's kin were created from earth and magic instead of a union between male and female, so he simply could not be bothered.

And Haldir... Haldir would not confess to it, though he might be entreated at length by his companions, but his attentions were reserved for one female in particular. She was brusque, confusing, rude, and utterly baffling... but then she was compassionate and actually kind. He had decided, somewhere along the way (around the time that she'd given a crushing rejection to the suave Théodred, he suspected) that the former were the thorns he would have to traverse in order to reach the latter, the rose within.

Thus it was with carefully-hidden pleasure that he saw Cordelia entering the courtyard, the familiar click of her shoes on the flagstones echoing off its high walls. "Haldir," she addressed him, the clipboard dangling from her fingers, "I've found out what happened. Come with me."

Nud smirked knowingly; _damned Dwarf was too canny by half,_ Haldir groused to himself as he levered himself from the table to follow her. Boromir only raised his brows, and Dondo flashed him a sympathetic smile (for Cordelia scared the Hobbit very much) whilst Drashtor turned his attention to the cards spread before him on the table.

"Now," he said happily, "if one of you dense lot will take Haldir's place, I have a chance of winning this game."


	2. Part 2 of 2

**The Only Explanation, part 2 of 2**   
_by CinnamonGrrl_

Haldir trailed after Cordelia, wending through the corridors until they reached a door that was different from the rest. They were all tall and pointed in an elegant arch at the top, carven of dark wood, but her door was square at the top, and made of a stained glass scene of a tree by a lake in the most startling jewel tones.

"Tiffany," she told him when she noticed his admiration. "You can't go wrong with Tiffany."

He didn't know what 'tiffany' was, but was prepared to humour her if it meant some answers in regards to his death. Yes, by now he had accepted that he was not, as he'd believed, merely unconscious. No, the undeniable presences of Théodred and Boromir had confirmed to him that even the only explanation could nevertheless be mistaken.

And since Haldir was rarely mistaken, he decided to enjoy it as a novel occurrence, since it would likely not happen again any time soon.

On the other side of the door was a study. There was a large desk, heaped with stacks of files, books, and an impressive array of cups all redolent of the brew Cordelia favoured so much—she called it "coffee" and seemed devoted to it. Even now, she ensconced herself behind the desk and picked up one of the cups, draining it with a sigh of relief.

"Crap, I'm tired," she muttered, then looked up at him. "Ever get to the point, Haldir, when you want to say 'fuck it'?"

Haldir couldn't say he had.

"Well, I'm just about there," she continued, "and there's not even a hot Swedish guy I can pay to massage me to get over it." She rubbed her temples before getting down to business. Haldir just concentrated on decoding what she'd said.

"It's like this," Cordelia told him, opening one of the files on one of the piles before her. "Somewhere, things went haywire."

"Haywire?" he repeated. It sounded bad.

"Haywire," she confirmed. "We're still looking into who, exactly, signed off on the change but somewhere along the way, the decision was made to send you and your archers off to Helms Deep."

"We should not have been there?" he asked, frowning.

"Nope," Cordelia replied, and leant back in her chair. "Legolas was supposed to be the only Elf at the battle. Oh, and Éomer _was_ supposed to be there. And Gandalf was supposed to be getting Erkenbrand, not Éomer... oh, forget that other stuff," she griped. "Thing is, there's been all sorts of changes made, and we don't know why, or by whom. But once we find out..." Her eyes glinted. "Let's just say, the Valar are none too happy about it. I sense an eternity brushing the tangles out of Huan's butt fur for the lucky perp."

Haldir blinked, not really wanting the mental image but helpless to prevent it. He sighed. "I was commanded to lead my archers by the Lady and Lord themselves," he told her. "Are they not responsible for this... error?"

"Nah," Cordelia replied, rubbing her temples once more. "They were being directed by the evil mastermind. Had no control over it... it was as if their actions and speech were being modified from the true, original script... crap." She glared blearily over the file-mountains at him. "I thought migraines were supposed to be a thing of the past when I took this job."

She stood and went to the door, opening it to indicate their time was up. "That's all I can tell you for now, Haldir. Sorry it's not more helpful, but life sucks all over." She paused. "Death sucks, too. It all sucks."

When he didn't go through the door immediately, she turned around, huffing impatiently, only to find him standing directly behind her.

"Are all the abilities of my body intact here?" he asked, very aware of her proximity. She smelt of an intriguing blend of rose and sandalwood, and he found himself breathing deeply, inhaling as much of it as possible.

"Yes," she said, her throat sounding... tight.

Haldir brought his hands up to her shoulders and began to massage them. Tension sat in two hard knots on either side of her neck, and he used his thumbs to firmly erase them, pushing his fëa out to heal and regenerate her, and absorb some of her discomfort. "Tell me what has you so upset," he entreated, smiling a little as her head lolled back in ecstasy.

"I've been here a long time," Cordelia replied thickly, her eyes falling closed. "A really, hellishly long time. There was a lot to do to get everything fixed up, let me tell you. Mandos has no sense of organization, and you should see how he filed things. It was chaos. I wasn't pleased at being sent here, at first—I wanted to be at the home office, in the thick of things. At the epicentre. Et cetera."

"But for some reason, they didn't like my determination to make sure things were running smoothly," she continued, disgruntled at the memory even as she allowed Haldir to turn her around. Facing away, she sighed as his strong fingers traveled down her spine, rubbing away pain and discomfort. "They said I was better suited to a smaller, 'less competitive environment'. Whatever the hell _that_ means."

Haldir bit his lip to keep from laughing; it was clear that they'd sent Cordelia to Aman simply because there was no one here willing to argue with her; she'd get her way, there'd be no stress, and that was that.

"So now, you are here," he prompted. "It seems a pleasant enough place, if somewhat boring. Whence comes this unhappiness?"

She brushed his hands away and turned to face him. "I have no one here," she told him, her voice quiet. "At first I didn't mind, because your robes? So First Age. I wouldn't be caught dead associating with someone in an embroidered potato sack. But after a while..." Caught up in her memories, she failed to notice his offended look. "I could see that potato sacks didn't matter. I tried making friends with some of the people who came through here, but it wasn't long before they were passing on... the mortals get Released, the immortals get reborn, and I'm still here."

Haldir decided it wasn't worth it to make a fuss about her accusation of his lack of style. Which was, incidentally, a complete falsehood. He considered himself garbed in the height of Elvish fashion for Lórien, but that was neither here nor there... "What about the Valar, the Maiar?" he asked. "They shall not pass from here."

"Oh, them." Cordelia dismissed the gods and demi-gods with an airy wave. "We can't really relate to each other, you know? It's like trying to compare rubber flip flops with Manolo Blahniks. There's just nothing _there_."

Haldir didn't even bother trying to figure out what she was saying. It was best, he was learning, to simply accept and move on. "I see," he lied. "Is there nowhere you can go? Are you tethered to this duty forever?"

"Pretty much," she said glumly, indulging in a moment of self-pity.

"It seems to me," he ventured, "that refusing companionship for fear of loss is self-defeating. It will hurt to lose them, but does it not hurt just as much to never have them in the first place?"

Cordelia's eyes flashed as anger replaced the pity, just as he had intended. "You don't know how many I've lost," she snapped. "You don't know what I've given up, what's been taken from me."

Haldir smoothed his hands down her arms. "Then tell me," he said. "Tell me."

She stared up at him a long moment, not even realizing her hands had come up to cup his elbows so she was nearly clinging to him. Then she pulled away, a big false smile plastered across her lovely face. "Maybe another time," she said brightly. "But right now, I've got a lot to do, and playing Bare-My-Soul with you has wasted far too much time."

She knew she wasn't fooling him, but he courteously sketched a bow and murmured, "Of course. Thank you for your assistance."

Cordelia waved a hand in his direction. "Just doing my job. It's what they pay me the big bucks for."

He paused in the threshold as she went back to her stack of papers and files, turning to glance back over his shoulder. "There is more to life... and death... than your occupation, Cordelia. Perhaps you would benefit from some days away from your duties here."

She snorted. It was most unladylike, he thought, but he found it didn't matter to him that she didn't behave as he had been reared to believe a proper female would. "Yeah, I'll just pack a few bikinis and go sun myself on the shores of Alqualondë, huh?" she asked. "That would go over really well with the PTBs, I'm sure."

"I know nothing of the... PTBs," Haldir said, "but I find it hard to believe that the Valar would force one of Their children to work without cease for millennia. Even for we Edhel, there is Mandos to give us relief, though we are tied eternally to Arda and shall endure as long as it does."

The brittle, skeptical look remained on her face but something flickered in her eyes; Haldir pressed on. "Ask them, Cordelia," he entreated softly. "Ask them for... for a sen'night away."

Her mouth trembled just a moment before she curled it in a smirk. "And if they gave it to me? Where would I go?"

"You mentioned Alqualondë...?"

"Alone?" She snorted again. "Yeah, that sounds like the party of the century. I like myself, don't get me wrong, but after a week alone with myself _I'm_ ready to become a dues-paying member of the We Hate Cordelia Club."

He took a step into the room once more. "I will come with you, if you would have me," he said, steadfastly ignoring the alternate meaning of that last phrase, even though his blood sang at the prospect of being had by her.

It was as if a skin had been peeled from her eyes, a mask from her face. "Would you really?" she asked, her voice low. In that moment, Cordelia was utterly naked before him as loneliness radiated from her.

He took another step closer. "Yes," he replied simply, drawn to her pain, her beauty, her fire, her thorns.

She stared at him a long moment, a hunger on her face that almost alarmed him. Then, with visible effort, she smoothed it from her features and forcibly relaxed her body. "I'll keep that in mind, Haldir, thanks!" she chirped.

Gone, then, was the moment of genuine sentiment. He nodded; he more than anyone knew what it meant to retain composure. "I hope to see you again soon."

* * *

More time passed; Haldir rarely saw Cordelia, though he would greatly have liked to, and unlife went on. Nud's devotion to the fairer sex seemed to inspire Boromir, and he was observed to engage various women in conversation, after which occasion his friends gathered round to critique his performance.

But Boromir was not one to suffer in silence; as soon as he was able, he turned to Haldir and inquired with deceptive innocence how fared the Elf's wooing of their toothsome hostess.

"There has been no... wooing," Haldir sniffed. The idea.

"Then it is no mystery that you are so surly," commented Nud. "You should try it; wooing does wonders for a sour disposition."

"The sourness of my disposition has nothing to do with wooing, or lack thereof," Haldir snapped.

"Of course, of course," Dondo said soothingly. But Nud snorted in frank disbelief, which made Haldir lift a haughty eyebrow, which made Drashtor laugh, which made Boromir swat at him, and then the group of them were wrestling in an unruly tangle on the floor.

The tapping of a smartly-shod toe on the floor by Haldir's head drew his attention from the choke-hold he had on Nud's throat, and he froze, only his eyes moving as his gaze traveled up from the foot. A shapely calf, a surprisingly—and endearingly—knobby knee, the long smooth thigh disappearing into a narrow skirt...

Transfixed, he didn't even see the fist until it had socked him right in the cheek. "Drashtor!" he growled, rolling off Dondo and clutching his face.

"My apologies!" exclaimed the Uruk, meaty hands fluttering uselessly. "Boromir pushed me..."

"Men," Cordelia muttered, gesturing the other away with an imperious wave. She traced a fingertip over the small, bleeding gash on Haldir's face, and it was gone. "Come on," she said to him. "We're leaving."

He frowned. Boromir, Nud, Dondo, and Drashtor frowned, too. Seeing that Haldir wasn't moving in response to her command, Cordelia frowned, and the toe-tapping commenced once more.

Haldir stood with customary grace, smoothing his robes and hair surreptitiously. "Where am I to go?" He was puzzled. It was far too soon to be Reborn, was it not? And Elves did not get Released...

"We're going to Alqualondë," Cordelia said. "I got a week off."

Haldir felt a smile lift his mouth. She had actually heeded his advice! Miraculous. "And I am to accompany you?"

"Well, duh," she replied impatiently. But there was a flash of something foreign, something incongruous, in her eyes. Worry, perhaps? Fear he would not accompany her? "Unless you changed your mind about going with me?"

Haldir tamped down the wild sensation of something doubtlessly completely imprudent flaring to life in his chest. "I have not," he answered gravely. "I will always go with you." He dared to reach out a finger to trail its tip down the silken surface of her cheek. "Or stay. Wherever you are, I shall be."

And she smiled at him, a glorious smile that reminded him of the sunrise he had not seen since the morning of his death, what seemed like so long ago.

"I would like to see Alqualondë," Nud mentioned, combing down his beard which had gotten knocked askew in their tussle.

"Me, too!" exclaimed Dondo, and straightened his little jacket.

"And I," added Boromir, whilst Drashtor nodded hopefully.

Haldir most certainly did not want his friends to tag along, as he had begun to entertain certain possibilities for their time away, but he took one look at them and knew all was doomed—it would take a stronger Elf than he to deny those shining faces.

"How about no?" Cordelia told them flatly. Clearly, she suffered no such weakness when confronted by pathetic, pleading eyes. "Do you know what I went through to get a full week's vacation? I had to get Nàmo to agree to come out of retirement, and let me just say, he's not happy about this. There's no way in hell Larry, Moe, Curly, and Shemp are going to tag along on my holiday. I had to jump through hoops to get a beachfront villa, and it's gonna be just me and the hot elf, so you can forget it."

With that, she grabbed Haldir's hand and began walking, forcing him to follow or be dragged behind. He had not completely understood what she had meant. And what did "hot" mean in reference to, he assumed, himself?

"Cordelia," he ventured, "I am not feeling overheated."

She stopped and turned slowly to face him. "What?"

"You said I was 'the hot elf'. But I am feeling perfectly comfortable in my robes."

She stared at him a full minute, then threw back her head and laughed. "Speaking of which," she said at last, completely ignoring his comment about being hot, "do you happen to have a swimsuit? Because we're going to be spending a lot of time on the beach."

The question made Haldir frown. "Elves wear nothing to swim," he said slowly, even as his heart thumped with the realization that he would, at long last, come to the sea.

Cordelia's smile grew, somehow, in brilliance. "Excellent," she purred.

Haldir blushed a little; only a fool could have missed her inference. "And you?" he asked boldly. "Shall you be unclad, as well?"

She walked backwards, smirking at him. "If you're a good boy."

He smirked, too. "I can be very good, when I wish."

Heat sparked in her eyes, and he knew it was met by the heat in his own. "Excellent," she repeated softly. She led him down the hallways; he wondered where they were going. Always before, during his explorations, the corridors had twisted and turned endlessly until he found himself back where he'd begun.

But this time, there before them was another immense, arched door. He had never seen it before. Cordelia twisted the huge brass knob, flung it open, and there before them stretched a vast plain of rolling green hills, brightly lit by the glowing golden sun above.

Awestruck, Haldir stood motionless, but Cordelia grabbed his hand once more and pulled him after her. "C'mon," she prompted. "We have to hurry, before they realize you're gone."

That jolted him from his reverie of delight. "What?" he demanded. "You do not have permission to take me with you?"

But Cordelia just adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder and looped her arms around his waist. "Not precisely," she admitted blithely, bestowing another megawatt smile on him, and they blinked out of existence.

**Nargothrond** – big, ill-fated battle in First Age 495 (approximately)  
**Huan** – Maiar who took the shape of an enormous dog.


End file.
